


Dew Point

by basketofnovas (slashmarks)



Category: Hetalia: Axis Powers
Genre: M/M, Trans Character, Trans Male Character
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-09-11
Updated: 2015-09-11
Packaged: 2018-04-20 04:16:41
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,802
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4773170
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/slashmarks/pseuds/basketofnovas
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Israel visits America in DC.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Dew Point

**Author's Note:**

> Written as a sort of gift for Koskus on tumblr. Israel is a combination of her art, my girlfriend's characterization, and my own ideas. Credit for his name, and for betaing the piece, goes to [tassledown](http://archiveofourown.org/users/tassledown). Iran, who appears only in thoughts narration, is based off of my own characterization and her art.
> 
> My own characterization for Alfred is used, meaning he's transgender. I have also used my own conventions names; country names are used as titles/formal speech, whereas first names are used between Nations who are on friendly terms and in internal narration.

Alfred turns on the window air conditioner at the back of the kitchen and offers Noam a seat at the table.

He takes it and wipes a hand across his forehead. His hair is plastered to his skin and down the back of his neck with sweat. It's not the heat – or, it's not just the heat, because DC is maybe a few degrees hotter than Jerusalem and Tel Aviv at this time of year, but DC is _wet_. He feels like he's breathing inside a fishtank. Or maybe a jacuzzi.

He likes visiting Alfred better in the spring, when the cherry trees are blooming and it's cooler. The spring here's cooler than his own, it's kind of nice.

Alfred is getting something out of the fridge – beer, looks like. Noam kind of hates American beer but he'll drink it to be polite, see he _does_ have manners, thank you, and anyway he hates American coffee just as much and what Alfred does to tea should be a felony. So unless he wants to offer him pop there aren't a lot of good options. Alfred's better at cooking than he is at making tea or coffee, but that would take longer than Noam thinks he's planning to spend in the kitchen just now.

“Dude,” he says after taking a sip, “I have got to bring you arak, or – you can buy decent wine here but you _don't_ , do you?”

“You sound like France.” Alfred grins and Noam makes a face. “Well, don't complain about my food then. I don't complain when you serve me that weird fried shit.”

“Which weird fried shit?” He frowns.

“Exactly,” Alfred says with a wide smirk, so Noam kicks him under the table.

“Don't call my food shit,” he says and takes another drink.

“Don't make faces at my drinks,” Alfred says cheerfully.

“So are you seriously going through on that deal with Iran?” Noam says for lack of a better conversation topic. They've already exhausted the weather (heat wave), the latest world meeting (chaotic) and Germany's management therein (so terrible it's almost funny), and Noam's upcoming holidays (the time off work is nice) on the walk back to Alfred's place.

“Yeah. I mean, my Congress was always gonna go the way it did on the deal.” Alfred shrugs.

“My boss isn't too happy.” His shirt has a loose thread coming off of the cuff. He picks at it absently. Last time he talked to her, Iran wasn't too happy _either_ , there was a lot of shouting about idiot adolescent empires and conspiracy theories, but she's happier than she'd be if there wasn't a deal, Noam figures. Not that he and Iran spend a lot of time talking about military policy.

Except when they do, okay.

“Yeah, I noticed,” Alfred says and sits up straighter. “Hey, no politics at the dinner table, yeah?”

“Dinner table, huh?” Noam says. “I don't see anything to eat.”

“Sure, I've got something,” Alfred says and slides down in his chair, a move which not coincidentally thrusts his crotch out.

Noam feels all the blood rush to his cheeks at once. Alfred is grinning at him about as bright as the sun, and it's really hard to be even annoyed with him with that look on his face. Maybe that's why he's so obnoxious in meetings, no one can be mad at him for long. Or maybe Noam just has the _worst_ crush on him.

“If I go down on you in here I think I'm gonna asphyxiate and die,” he says. “Let's give the air conditioner a chance to work, or maybe your bedroom's cooler?” Real smooth, he thinks sarcastically, but it's not like Alfred exactly wants him to be subtle.

“Yeah, it should be more habitable there,” Alfred says brightly and gets up. “Not real hospitable to let you expire on my kitchen floor, huh?”

“If I die in the bedroom you can always roll me up in the rug and throw it out,” Noam says. “Instead of having to restain the wood in here.”

“I _like_ that rug, try to die on the comforter if you have to.”

Noam watches Alfred's ass – Noam's not smooth at _all_ – instead of answering on the way to the bedroom. He's wearing a pair of those extremely tight jeans he likes, which Noam appreciates, and a black tank top over his binder. Noam wonders if it's a show for his benefit, and thinks maybe that's kind of conceited. Alfred sleeps with plenty of people, he's not special. Except that Alfred doesn't usually wear tight clothing without his jacket over top of it, because his hips are too wide and the binder doesn't really flatten his chest the whole way. So maybe it is for him.

And oh, the bedroom _is_ cooler, cold compared to the rest of the house, that's nice. The blinds are down, and Alfred doesn't turn on the overhead light, he just walks in. Noam stands in the doorway for a second to let his eyes adjust, so when Alfred turns the lamp on and shucks his tank top off he's perfectly framed in the light in front of Noam.

Noam lingers to watch him for a moment. When he reaches up to start rolling the binder off, the muscles in his stomach ripple appealingly. Noam takes ages to gain muscle. He's strong enough to haul a tank out of the dirt by himself if it gets stuck but apparently that's never going to be reflected in his body, not like Alfred.

Once done, Alfred starts taking his jeans off and Noam turns away deliberately. He'd be happy to keep staring but he doesn't want to make Alfred uncomfortable. He knows Alfred is doesn't like being watched naked, because naked he looks basically like a woman and he says he never knows what people are thinking. It's kind of a pity because Noam has a hunch the muscles in his chest would be just as fascinating now that the binder's off but it's not really a big deal.

He starts taking his own clothes off, just sort of piling them on the floor haphazardly. He hears the drawer open, and then the little clicks of the buckles on the strap on harness behind him. Something in his stomach tightens with anticipation and just a little nervousness, because while Alfred's never made it hurt – well, some people he sleeps with aren't all that careful--

Not that he's complaining; if Iran was _nice_ to him he might go into shock and actually expire on _her_ carpet, which would probably get him a really weird lecture at the next world meeting. (Likely about how it was made by hand in the 1500s and he has an amazing capacity for destroying anything he comes into contact with. Which is completely unfair, he apologized about the tea set and that was in the _Pahlavi_ era for fuck's sake back when they were still allies so you'd think she could stop bringing it up.)

And at that point he realizes he's arguing with Iran in his head while naked in America's bedroom and gratefully turns his brain to the task actually at hand.

Alfred's sitting on the bed, so Noam goes to join him and leans in for a kiss. Alfred kisses like he's got all day, which they actually do today so fair enough. Noam imagines for a little bit that he can taste the sunshine coming off of Alfred's smile, which is total bullshit and _wow_ he is crushing on America, but it's sort of a nice thought.

The bedroom air conditioning unit is blowing on his back and neck, and some of his hair goes into his eyes when he sits up a little. The sweat coating his back feels like ice in the cold. It's good after the walk.

Alfred pulls back a little and grins at him, and it's not like his 'I'm going to fuck you over and you're going to thank me and ask for more' smiles at meetings because his eyes crinkle up. He turns to take his glasses off and their knees knock against each other gently. “Good, huh?”

“You always are,” Noam says, and notices that just how happy he is, is evident against Alfred's thigh. He blushes again. He can feel the flush down his neck and in his ears.

One of these days he's going to stop blushing at the drop of a hat, or so he hopes. Anyway Alfred laughs and calls it cute when he turns back like he always does so Noam's not sure why he's complaining, particularly when Alfred rolls him over onto the bed on his back and kisses him into the pillows.

The icy feeling from the air conditioner on his bare skin was just starting to be unpleasant, so he's glad to be sandwiched between the comforter – fluffy and soft, Alfred's furniture is ancient and scarred but everything new in the apartment is expensive and luxurious and that includes his bedsheets – and Alfred's skin.

The skin is softer than the Egyptian cotton underneath them except for where it's marked by scars. In just around sixty years as an adult Nation Noam has about as many scars as Alfred, which is completely not fair. (Iran's got more than either of them, though. There are places on her body that look unmarked until you get close and then you can see the silver lines, almost but not _quite_ faded out of existence and he should really stop thinking about Iran now, shouldn't he?)

Alfred drops his lips down Noam's jaw, and Noam pushes his head up and moans loudly. Teeth close around the lobe of his ear and make him shiver. He drifts in the sensation – hot and cold, the cotton under him and Alfred's fingers down his sides and teeth and lips on his neck – and spaces out. The air conditioner whirrs a few feet from his head. The sounds of the road come from outside, and there's a bird singing in Alfred's front garden. Alfred hums a little, tunelessly and drifts down to suck the edge of Noam's collar bone – his hands close on Alfred's arm and he whines.

“Mm?” Alfred smiles up at him and leans down to kiss the scar across Noam's chest. Something about the proximity of his teeth, maybe, or maybe just the way _power_ shines across Alfred's skin with every reflection and refraction of light sets him on edge, makes him remember the knife that made that scar, and he snaps alert.

All laziness is gone. He tries to recapture it, tries to listen to the drone of the air conditioner and Alfred's humming. When the bird sings again he tries to lose himself in a daydream of Alfred fucking him in the garden – DC is ridiculously, implausibly _green_ , in a way that includes almost every other color in existence and he almost gets a headache from walking too long in the flower gardens here – but his heart is racing with an edge of panic and he can taste the pulse of adrenaline in his own mouth.

Instead of suppressing the adrenaline, he runs with it. He buries his fingers in Alfred's hair and drags his face up to kiss him hard – not coincidentally pulling him away from his scars – and closes his eyes. His other arm goes around Alfred, clinging hard. He pulls a leg up, too, wraps it around one of Alfred's and digs his heel into the back of Alfred's knee, maybe encouraging him and maybe making sure that Alfred can't get up, that Noam is sort of in control here.

When they separate Alfred is breathless and half-laughing, and Noam is also breathless but his pulse has slowed a little. “So I should hurry up, huh?” Alfred says with a smile that would be too open to be imperial on literally anyone else. On Alfred it could be except that his glasses are gone and that makes his face look different. Younger, maybe.

Alfred has a thousand, a million smiles and Noam is in the process of cataloging them with all the time they spend together. In another century of these meetings-after-meetings he might be something close to done.

“Are you gonna fuck me or not?” Noam retorts.

By the time he finishes the sentence Alfred is already twisting to the dresser to get lube. The gel is cold, almost as icy as the sweat that is once again streaking down Noam's neck and wetting his hair. Alfred's fingers twist in his ass and Noam's hips arch up. He digs his fingers into Alfred's hair and tries not to yank too hard. Pulling hair can be sexy, yanking it out by the root is not. So he has been informed.

Alfred's fingers catch in him a little and he whines. He can't quite tell whether it's good or bad pain, but he's grateful Alfred keeps his nails clipped very short, not like – well, again, some people he could mention – and then Alfred slides his hand out and wipes it off and the dildo is sliding into him instead.

It's big. It's really the same as last time, but Noam doesn't do this enough to ever get really used to it, it feels almost too big every single time. He huffs a little and cants his hips up, then he lets go of Alfred's hair to drop back on his elbows, trying to shift the angle. Alfred's hands lift his hips some, helping, and oh – there, that's right, a long groan escapes him as Alfred thrusts the rest of the way in.

Then Alfred is kissing him again and Noam wraps his legs around him, clinging again and arching his back up off the sheets. He may not have Alfred's muscles but he's got flexibility, right? Alfred does something tricky with the strap on and an inhuman noise escapes through Noam's teeth. He feels stretched out and strained and it _almost_ tips over into actual pain but never really does, and his pulse is loud in his ears again.

“God,” Alfred says, and it makes Noam's eyes snap to his face again. He sees Alfred's hard stare. “You look good like this.”

“What,” Noam mumbles, blushing and burying his face in Alfred's neck to hide it, “With your dick buried in me?”

“Yeah.” Alfred laughs again, into his hair now. His body ripples with the laughter, and it sends interesting vibrations into Noam's ass. He closes his eyes and tries to concentrate, meets Alfred's thrusts a little and kisses his neck while it's convenient.

He's shivering, and Alfred's hands move up to stroke his sides. “Easy,” he's murmuring into his hair, “Easy, now, darling,” there's some accent in his voice but Noam doesn't really speak English well enough to say what.

The petting is nice, it's a reminder he's not going to fall apart. Without Alfred's hands supporting him he drops his hips and back to the bed again and sprawls out flat.

Alfred thrusts into him hard, and Noam's hands grip his arms so hard he can tell Alfred will bruise tomorrow. He feels Alfred press down on him, bigger than him physically and much stronger than him – if Noam can drag a tank out of the mud by himself Alfred could probably lift one, if not for the balance problems – and he feels trapped for just an instant. Then he's coming in quick jerks.

He's tense and shaking and shivering all at once; he feels almost like he's going to break. His legs spasm against Alfred's, and his hands on Alfred's arms, and Alfred's fingers grip his sides tighter, tight enough it definitely hurts. Then Noam goes limp, and Alfred lets go and kisses him again, and it's over.

They break the kiss. Noam drops his head back to the pillows and slits his eyes open, staring at the shadows blanketing the ceiling. His semen is trickling down his stomach, and he should move to wipe it up but he doesn't feel like he could move at all right now.

Alfred pulls out of him and sits up. Noam turns his head to the side to watch him unbuckle the strap on harness and toss it off the bed, then shifts over a little so Alfred can lie down on the side next to him.

“Hey.” Alfred smiles at him, eyes and dimples crinkling. “How's it going?”

“Good.” Noam leans over to kiss him one more time, feels Alfred's smile against his lips. “I'm good. Thanks.”

In a few minutes, when he's recovered, he'll sit up and see if Alfred wants anything. Right now he's happy to just lie there and let the sweat on his chest and abdomen dry in the breeze from the air conditioner.

**Author's Note:**

> [What Alfred does to tea](http://www.food.com/recipe/southern-style-sweet-iced-tea-119268). (Southern style sweet tea recipe. That's almost two cups of sugar in eight cups of water.)
> 
> [Arak](https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Arak_%28drink%29). 
> 
> [The nuclear deal with Iran](https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Joint_Comprehensive_Plan_of_Action).
> 
> [Except when they do.](https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Iran%E2%80%93Israel_relations#Khomeini_era)


End file.
